


Not Alone

by ConstantlyTiredReader



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Self-Worth Issues, Spicyhoney - Freeform, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25545034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantlyTiredReader/pseuds/ConstantlyTiredReader
Summary: The thing is, Stretch knows he has issues. He isn’t oblivious to his mental health — or more accurately, his lack thereof. Just because he isn’t going out into the world, sharing all the nitty-gritty icky within whatever serves for a brain in skeletons, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know that he should probably, definitely seek help.Most of the time.Luckily, sometimes help comes in the form of an unexpected skeletal acquaintance.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Spicyhoney
Comments: 20
Kudos: 67





	Not Alone

The thing is, Stretch isn't a total idiot.

He knows he has issues, thanks. Kinda even deals with them every day and all that jazz. He isn’t oblivious to his mental health — or more accurately, his lack thereof. Just because he isn’t going out into the world, sharing all the nitty-gritty icky within whatever serves for a brain in skeletons, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know that he should probably, definitely seek help. 

Most of the time.

It’s days like these, however, where all the awareness in the world means abso-fucking-lutely nothing. If anything, _knowing_ that he isn’t okay makes matters worse; there is a reason they say ignorance is bliss. All that self-awareness brings him is the guilt that he is too much of a stars damn coward to do anything about it, the perfect shitty sprinkles on top of the already heaping pile of garbage that is his life.

Blue is gone for the weekend; something about a ‘top secret private training reunion’ with Alphys that sounded suspiciously like it was just a sleepover while Undyne is gone at some science conference. That leaves Stretch at home. Alone. Well, alone with his mind, at least, because that mean little voice has been active enough for the past several hours that Stretch really ought to start charging rent. At least then, he could say he was doing something with his life.

The worst part is that he has been lowkey expecting this, and not just because of his bro’s absence. A funny little hunch of his shit hitting the fan. There was nothing concrete pointing to the fact that his mental health was waiting to crumble like a house made out of sugar in Waterfall. As convenient as it would be to have a handy dandy sign so that he could circle the dates on the calendar, the truth is that there wasn’t anything specific. He only had a sneaking suspicion.

He just really hates that his guess was so accurate. That’s all.

So far, Stretch hasn’t found anything to motivate him to get out of bed. Nothing whatsoever. Not the dim discomfort of feeling sweat growing on his bones, making his pyjamas stick to them moistly. Not the general knowledge that he can’t remember the last time he had something to drink. Which, if he were to think about it, is probably a problem. Not even the fact that Blue recently bought some specialty honey the last time he went to the farmer’s market and that it’s sitting there in the kitchen with his name all over it is enough to get him up and going.

Right now, Stretch feels like he might jitter out of his bones, he is so anxious. But, he has no outlet for it, which sucks. At least in the old days, he could sometimes count on his anxiety to act as a booster charge, helping him to form something mildly resembling a drive. But nope, life can’t be that easy. Today, he just gets to be constantly on edge with the bonus of a distantly screaming mind. 

Joy of all joys.

If that weren’t enough for the sucky brain bingo sheet, he is also at that inexplicable depressive state where he manages to be both numb and so incredibly hurting at the same time. Stretch is pretty darn sure he has been on and off the verge of tears since waking up, flipping back and forth between the two like a sped-up ping pong ball. This, of course, only adds to how gross he feels; nothing like snotty tears to make a guy feel hot as fuck. And that’s when he’s actually noticing stuff. Zoning out while feeling like shit is a lot easier. 

He still can’t find any discernible reason for this all to be hitting him right now. It is what it is. Just because living on the Surface means having sunshine and rainbows, it doesn’t mean the rest of his life has gotten with the program.

To add another layer of anti-fun to everything, though, is when some of _those_ thoughts randomly shove their way through the fog of darkness. He hasn’t had _those_ ones in years. Not since he was still in denial with himself about it all, convincing himself that he was just going through a minor slump. Even then, he doesn’t remember the urges being that clear, that tempting. 

The smart, logical part of his mind acknowledges that this is definitely a matter of fairly significant concern.

His phone is sitting right beside him. Fully charged, even. Stretch could call someone, text someone, hell, isn’t there even supposed to be online stuff where he can message a professional? All it would take is a twitch of his fingers and he could unlock it. Do that. Get help.

Except he can’t.

It feels like he can barely summon the energy to breathe, let alone deal with his issues. But that can be a problem for a future him. Maybe. Probably not. Stretch can at least hope; someday, he wants to be able to say that he got his shit together instead of just feeling like it.

Right now, all he can manage is occasionally turning to switch what side he’s lying on when he starts getting uncomfortable. He’s already numb enough; giving himself pins and needles because his arm fell asleep doesn’t need to be added to the menu. Plus, for the few seconds it takes, Stretch feels less like he won the Guinness World Record for ‘most caffeine consumed in an hour’ after also winning one for ‘most days without sleep’. 

Vaguely in the background, Stretch registers the sound of the front door opening. Huh. He didn’t think that he had spent the entire weekend in bed yet. He should probably feel hungry if that was the case; he knows he hasn’t had anything to eat since Blue left. 

Blue will be upset when he finds out. Sad, to be more precise. All because he left to enjoy a fun weekend and came back to his older bro feeling like shit, even if it’s not his fault at all. Then, he’ll just go back downstairs to make a Guilt Meal, brimming with honey and served with a tight, forced smile which will just make Stretch feel worse. Which, of course, means tomorrow he will wake up to another Guilt Meal — Breakfast Edition, obviously — and the cycle continues.

Holding tight to the pillow he has been squeezing to his chest for the past who knows how long, Stretch takes a hiccupy breath. The pillow is still damp from his last almost-crying spell. He can already tell it won’t have a chance to dry before Blue makes his way up here.

He isn’t ready for this. He just isn't. Stretch doesn’t want his baby bro to have to know how bad things are. Blue already has enough on his plate without needing to worry about him even more. But, there is no way he can pretend to be approaching anything _near_ okay-ish right now. He simply doesn’t have it in him to try.

Except —

“Still lazing about in bed, I see. Tsk tsk.”

— it isn’t Blue who waltzes his way into Stretch’s room.

It’s Edge.

Groaning, Stretch buries his face deeper into his pillows. If he can’t deal with everything else right now, he definitely can’t deal with Captain Asshole. Why is he even here right now? Stretch sure didn’t hand over an invite.

Needless to say, playing dead doesn’t work in this situation. Stretch can still hear Edge growing nearer. “Then again, I really shouldn’t be surprised,” he sneers. “It does seem to be your natural habitat, alongside filthy bars.”

Oh stars, he wants to tell Edge to leave. To go fuck off anywhere but here in his bedroom.

He doesn’t, though. Not even when Edge makes yet another inflammatory comment, this time about the state of his room making a nuclear warzone look like a vacation destination and would it kill Stretch to clean his room more than once a month? The joke’s on him; it’s been even longer than that since he has last been able to muster up the desire to fix it. Edge can’t even see the worst of it. Should anyone so much as breathe near his closet door, it will explode with all the accumulated junk and laundry.

“Not responding, are we?” he scoffs after pausing to give Stretch a chance at a rebuke. “What, are you so stars damned lazy that you can’t even stay awake for your favourite hobby of flinging insults?”

 _Not now. Go away. Just… go away._ He needs… well, he isn’t exactly sure how much time he needs until he can be anywhere near ready to deal with this. All he knows is that time isn’t now.

Edge goes quiet. Long enough, in fact, that Stretch idly wonders if he has melted through the floor or some shit. All he can hear — besides his stupid thoughts — is the sound of his clock, a special one with equations in the place of numbers that his bro gifted him using his first paycheque from living up here. Tick tock, tick tock. Edge still isn't talking. Tick tock.

The muffled click of Edge's ridiculous heeled boots against his carpet soon joins the silence. However, unlike the clock, it isn't a steady beat. Without looking up to check, Stretch has the feeling that Edge is playing the floor is lava, except replace the lava with dirty socks, granola bar wrappers, and whatever the fuck else is inhabiting his floor. Hopefully, nothing alive.

At his side, his mattress sinks in as Edge gingerly sits himself down upon it. Reluctantly, Stretch shifts his face out of his pillow, wincing at his newly lit room. So much for the 'trying to ignore him’ plan. Looks like Edge isn't giving him much of a choice; avoidance can only go so far when the person you're trying to avoid is close enough to kiss.

Not that Stretch plans on kissing Edge. Nope. It's just an example. A really, really bad one. Even if it _is_ an appropriate measure of distance.

For a brief moment, they make eye contact. Edge’s face is oddly blank, schooling away any hints of what he might be feeling far, far away from Stretch. Feeling awkward, he directs his gaze up to the ceiling, staring blanking. Specifically, he works on focusing his eye lights on one of the old water stains on the ceiling. This one looks like a baby duck, he dully notices. 

When Edge sighs, Stretch feels it more than he hears it. “May I?” he asks, his gravelly voice pitched low.

Blinking blearily, Stretch shrugs. He’s not even sure what Edge is going on about and can’t dredge up enough caring to ask. “whatever.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Stretch spots a red gloved hand. Moving slowly, just like how he tells people to act around his feral fluffball of a cat, that hand comes near to his head. When Stretch doesn't react, Edge runs it gently over his frontal bone, just above his coronal sutures. It’s weird. Not a bad weird, though. If anything, the light touch is a nice distraction from his fuzzy internal screaming. 

Softly, Edge asks, “How bad is it?”

Stretch squeezes his eyes shut at the question, his soul clenching in unison. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even know what he would say if he were to try. Regardless, Edge seems to take that as an answer, even if Stretch isn’t exactly sure what he reads into it. 

After what is either a handful of seconds or a few minutes, he speaks up again. “How can I help?”

“… i dunno,” Stretch manages to whisper, voice trembling traitorously. There is a tightness in his throat, the slight burn threatening of a new spilling of tears. He swallows past it to ask, “why… why do you even care?” It isn’t like he has any reason to.

At first, Edge doesn’t answer. He just keeps petting his skull, the smooth cotton of his glove gliding across bone with a slight rasp. The motion is repetitive, something easy to track. Each sweep of his hand is steady, despite the fact that Stretch can hear his bones beginning to rattle. He must have plenty of practice from smoothing Doomfanger’s constantly puffed up fur; every time Stretch has seen Edge’s cat, it seems to be angry.

The longer he lies there, the more Stretch becomes overly conscious of his breathing. That it’s too loud and slightly too fast, just like his racing thoughts.

Something is up here. Why is Edge still here? It isn’t like Stretch is good company or something; last time he checked, most people don’t go to a person’s house to watch them try not to cry like a complete idiot. 

Or is it because of this that Edge is staying? Is he only staying here to take in his weakness? To give himself more material to use against Stretch at a later date? Sure, asking him if he can help out and shit doesn’t fit with that dickish hypothesis, but that doesn’t mean that Edge’s actions are altruistic. For all Stretch knows, he could be doing it to take advantage of his pathetic neediness so he can be in Edge’s debt in the future. 

Or, is he —

“Hush,” Edge says gruffly. His other hand takes over the petting of his skull as he transfers his right one to rest lightly on Stretch’s chest. “You’re going to be alright. Breathe.”

Feeling slightly lightheaded now that Edge has reminded him about it, he tries. Edge guides him through it wordlessly until Stretch can at least say that he isn’t hyperventilating. As soon as his breathing is brought back to a level that is clearly deemed acceptable, Edge’s hand leaves his ribcage, returning to its previous post once more. Opening his eyes, his vision remains vaguely unfocused. This leaves the details of his room — his overflowing, haphazardly built bookcase, his trash tornado, the various polaroid pictures taken by his brother of life on the Surface blue tacked onto the walls — fuzzy around the edges.

By this point, Stretch has nearly forgotten his last question. It’s only when Edge subtly clears his throat to quietly say, “Because no one should have to hurt alone,” that he remembers.

_Oh._

More silence pervades the room, heavier than the several layers of thick blankets covering Stretch. Edge’s hand has stopped moving on his skull, simply resting it on his parietal bone. This, of course, only adds to the sensation of heaviness. Stretch might as well be sinking into his mattress, swallowed by piles of bedding. 

Honestly, that doesn’t sound like the worst thing. At least then, he wouldn’t have to deal with the whole life thing.

Eventually, Edge shifts beside him. The slight movement is enough to rouse Stretch into attention, rolling a bit to see him. “Can I get you something to eat?,” he offers. “I could make you something. Or perhaps order in…”

“not hungry,” he mumbles. 

“Something to drink, then?” he prompts. “Water, tea, milk…” Edge pauses for a moment, grimacing. “Honey?”

“dunno.” Stretch can’t even bring himself to make a characteristic shrug. Maybe Edge can hear it in his voice instead of plain emptiness. That would be convenient of him.

“Fine,” Edge says agreeably. “Think about it a bit, and if you change your mind — about _anything_ — let me know.”

Nodding tiredly for him, Stretch gives in to the urge to curl up smaller on the bed, wrapping his arms around his knees. Briefly, the somewhat childish thought occurs that if he can become small enough, he might be able to disappear.

Both of them stay there for a while, unmoving. Edge doesn’t leave, even though Stretch isn’t doing anything and it must be so terribly boring to stay here with him just because he’s a miserable mess. If there is one thing Stretch knows about Edge, it’s that he doesn’t like sitting still without reason; he is just as active as Blue. From what Red has told him, Edge spends his days off doing things like baking, working out, tending his personal garden, and so on. 

So why would he want to do this?

“you… you don’t have to stay,” he finally works up the courage to say. His voice is muffled into his sleeves, breath passing warmly through the worn flannel onto bone. 

Raising a brow bone, Edge inquires, “But do you want me to stay?”

Does he?

Stretch has no clue. Whatever is going on between them today… it seems like an anomaly. Edge isn’t supposed to treat him like this; until this point, their entire ‘relationship’ exists on antagonism, not whatever this is.

Any other day, the answer would be fuck no and fuck off. Hell, not too much earlier today, that was the answer. Even when Stretch is doing well, it would be an understatement to say that he doesn’t particularly enjoy spending with Edge. And Stretch is nowhere near doing well right now. 

But deep down in his soul, he… he thinks he sort of likes this? Yeah, he realises, he does. He _likes_ Edge treating him nicely. For once, his company doesn't make Stretch want to go running for the hills screaming his head off and he could get used to it. He could get used to this company; anything to help stave away the way loneliness has been piling on top of everything else is probably a good thing.

Drumming his fingers on his knees, Stretch holds his breath. He already knows that he could easily regret this later, but fuck it; it’s not like he has been making good decisions for his future self in general today. He takes the gamble.

“please?”

Edge nods. “Then I’ll stay.”

And stay he does.

Stretch isn’t exactly sure how or when he ended up with his head resting on Edge’s lap. Any other day, trying something like that would get him shoved to the ground. Then again, any other day, this wouldn’t happen; he would rather give one of his femurs to the innkeeper’s teething pup to chew on than voluntarily get this up and personal with his alternate. But here he is, curled up all in Edge’s business.

Strangely enough, Edge doesn’t seem to mind. After putting in the effort to rearrange the blankets to help make him more comfortable, he starts humming. Quiet to the point that the sound disappears sometimes, maybe, but undeniably humming. Stretch doesn’t recognise the song, but it’s more restful than anything he would imagine Mr Spikes and Leather ever listening to. Almost like a lullaby, which is ridiculous; how would Edge, who has fucking _Red_ as an older brother, know a lullaby? However, regardless of what kind of song it may be, it does help his soul settle. A bit.

But not enough. Still not enough.

Stretch hears a heaving sigh. “Are you okay?” Edge asks. It’s only then that he processes the fact that it was him who sighed, and not Edge. 

It’s obvious that the answer is no. No, he isn't okay. Saying it, though… 

If his tongue was summoned, Stretch would be biting it right now. But it isn’t. “hold me?” It isn’t an admission, strictly speaking. People can be okay and want to be held. Still, it feels like he is asking for too much. Stretch is being too needy.

But Edge just carefully wraps his arms around him, bending his back in a way that cannot be comfortable. “Like this?”

Stretch shrugs. Despite the embrace, it isn’t too hard to do; the physical contact between them is rather loose. “it’s okay,” he mumbles, which is true. It _is_ okay, but it’s still not what he was wanting. He still doesn’t feel ‘here’ enough, an idea that he clumsily tries to explain.

Humming consideringly, Edge lets go. Before Stretch can let out a noise of complaint, he begins gently manhandling him until he is curled close to his chest, his hugging pillow back in his own arms. Edge is warm. He is so very warm and surprisingly soft and squishy for a skeleton. _Especially_ for a skeleton who is as harsh and edgy as the edgelord. Only now does Stretch realise how hard he has been trembling, now that he is being held close to his alternate’s sturdier frame. Resting his forehead against Edge’s sternum, he breathes in the burgundy button up. It smells like it was freshly washed, the soapy scent similar to whatever brand Blue buys.

“better,” he whispers, mostly to himself. This helps. Something about it lessens the almost painful yearning he has been feeling.

Edge’s arms tighten around him the slightest bit. “All right. Let me know if that changes.”

“‘kay.”

Exhausted, Stretch’s body is heavy as he scrubs at the itchy, crusty magic on his face with his sleeves. Every once in a while, his breath hitches, hiccuping stupidly in a way that makes him wonder if his body is going to betray him again by crying when he doesn’t want to. Each time, Edge croons a bit more, rocking him gently. This cycle continues longer than Stretch would care to admit. 

After far too long, his mind begins to quiet. Unfortunately, that provides him the clarity to wonder something he should have realised a while ago. 

“why did you come here?”

Edge stiffens. Roughly half a second later, he relaxes himself once more. Running his hand soothingly over Stretch’s spine, he says, “I… don’t worry about it. I’m here now, and will be as long as you want me to be. That’s all that matters.”

Hmm… Stretch will accept that answer for now, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to pursue it. Sagging deeper into Edge’s embrace, he closes his eyes. Needless to say, all this emotional honesty junk is exhausting. As long as Edge is promising to stay with him, he might as well take advantage of the cuddles to help him nap.

Stretch may not feel completely better, but at least he isn’t alone.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://constantly-tired-reader.tumblr.com/) and [my Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/ConstantlyTiredReader)! Feel free to visit at any time.


End file.
